


Scream Till The Words Dry Out

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-05 19:16:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14625285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: In captivity, Missy has only four sources of company. Her oldest friend, his robot sidekick, and his hopelessly gay companion make up the first three... but the fourth? Her memories, and not all of them pleasant. Still, she supposes, struggling to reconcile the past with the present passes the time... even if that time is itself a living hell.





	Scream Till The Words Dry Out

**Author's Note:**

> This is... thematically really dark, so you have been warned. General mentions of coercion, abuse and sexual assault throughout.

At first, she vows she won’t tell him. For the longest time, she can’t put into words the reasons for her decision – can’t quite elucidate her reasoning for keeping what happened a secret. She’s not spent so much time with humans to assume it’s anything like shame, not to start with, although as the hours – days? weeks? – pass, she feels that sentiment begin to creep over her. Once it’s taken root in her chest, it grows – white hot and pulsing through her system with the kind of grip that closes her throat and renders her silent and scared in a way that she knows is frightening the Doctor. But she can’t find a way to put it into words. Can’t find a way to explain without rendering herself culpable in the way she knows she certainly is, and besides, it’s not like she can say the name, is it? She’s tried a few times, and each time it’s stuck in her throat, choking her into silence and robbing her of the ability to speak. It’s a poison. It’s a death sentence. It’s… well, it’s part of her punishment, she supposes.

Even with her once-iron will broken, even in this prison of her oldest friend’s design, some of her defiance remains. In the quasi-darkness of the faux-night, she lies in bed and tries to mouth the name, over and over, until one day her mouth latches around the syllables and speaks it into the empty room of its own accord. It seems to echo back at her at a deafening volume, although it had been little more than a whisper, and she worries at once that he’ll come running. That he’ll come to check on her – or worse, he’ll send the bald one – and she won’t be able to control her actions. She’s here to heal. She’s here to change. He might not know about this particular nugget of information, but she can work through it without him. 

Because he wouldn’t understand. How could he? She won’t – shan’t – tell him, because if she were to, he wouldn’t understand. Feelings? Anathema to him. Emotions? Alien. He was never a talker, her Theta Sigma, and she was always much the same – far more likely to blow up a planet than send him a simple hello message. She reasons that this is a problem now, given her confinement to a room that would have appalled the archaic upper echelons of their ruined society due to its size alone, but then again she supposes that there aren’t any of the pompous fools left to witness this. Aren’t any left to judge, not now. It’s just her, and Thete, and… well, there had been the one whose name she chokes on, but she tries not to dwell on how that ended.

She won’t – shan’t – tell him for another simple reason. She’s seen the anger of the Oncoming Storm, and she cannot face it now. She cannot face his righteous fury at the one who did this, because what she truly wants – _needs_ – is not his indignation or his oath of vengeance, but just… she doesn’t know, precisely. She isn’t accustomed to this; isn’t accustomed to needing the kind of support usually limited to his pitiful human companions. Although she supposes the current one seems fairly put together – more so than the last one, a thought at which her hearts twang uncomfortably as she remembers better days. Days which were untainted by the weight of the memories that dog her every waking moment; days spent irking her best friend out in the freedom of the universe, rather than rotting away in her custom-built prison cell with nothing but her memories and Mexican food for company. 

She should hate him, she supposes. She should hate him for keeping her here, but his actions are selfless enough. He’s made a vow – one that she’d have joked about, once, had his words regarding her body not held uncomfortable implications – and she cannot fault him for trying. He’s doing this out of compassion. He’s trying to do the right thing. 

She should reciprocate. She should tell him what’s hanging over her like the sword of Damocles. 

But she can’t. Won’t. Shan’t.

 

* * *

 

In the darkness, she lets her mind wander. Remembers, unwillingly, how it had started so innocently. An old friend, a chance meeting, and drinks; a discussion, a confession… and then an admission in return. That was all it had taken, and she’d somehow found herself – her, the Queen of Evil – volunteering her services as… well. They’d put a name to it at the time, but she flinched from the noun now – it was a name and an idea that had enough linguistic connotations as to be uncomfortable, weighing around her shoulders like a mantle. The idea had been enlivening at the time – a way for them both to get what they needed. But now? 

Now there are words she can’t contend with. Themes she can’t stand. She flinches away from the domineering, the angry, the bitchy – away from all the things she once held dear as part of her intrinsic nature.

She has plenty of time to reflect, of course – captivity is a great enabler of introspection. There’s plenty of time to wonder why she made her choices, and to wonder why she had been foolish enough to make such a suggestion at all. Had it been to do with Thete? With making him jealous, making him notice her, making him realise precisely what he had been missing? That idea had been tossed aside almost at once, as she’d rolled her eyes and clenched her fists and shaken her head, although there had been no one around to see her. She’d ruminated on the idea that perhaps it was something she needed to get out of her system, but that idea had reduced her to mirthful, bitter tears. The Mistress did not have phases. The Mistress did not decide that wilful cruelty needed to be expunged from her system – or she hadn’t until now, at least. Now was another kettle of fish altogether. 

The only possible explanation that even begins to make sense to her is the third. 

That she wanted to suffer as penance for her crimes. 

Oh, she could spend hours thinking about that. She could move from horizontal surface to horizontal surface in her gilded prison and ponder on the past, and what she’d done.

But the truth is, there’s too much discomfort to look back on; too much unhappiness, too much guilt. Of course, she puts on a show for her jailer’s benefit – she pretends it doesn’t bother her and that’s she’s unmoved by the weight of all those lives taken. She’s mad, after all; insane, burning with rage and hatred, and just a tiny bit bananas to boot. But she knows that deep down, there’s a spark of conscience within her. 

Perhaps _she_ was that spark given life. Perhaps _she_ intended to invoke that conscience and bring about the crisis of faith which brought Missy to where she is now – captive, yes, but not entirely without complicity in her fate. There’s a lengthy, agonising few days in which Missy wonders whether _she_ was working with Thete, but that idea is dismissed almost at once. He is stern, but fair. He is kind, not cruel. He would never have been part of the things that happened. 

She aches to tell him. One painful evening, the desire is so strong that she fears she’ll make a scene; fears she’ll rage and scream to draw him to her and drive him to ask the one question she needs him to ask.

She doesn’t.

She sits at her piano and plays, and plays, and plays.

If she hits the wrong notes… well, there’s nobody to hear her. Nobody but herself, and the ghosts of the past.

 

* * *

 

She has a new appreciation now of the sins of her previous incarnations, and one haunts her more than any other. A ghoulish, beautiful, broken spectre of a woman, eyes mild and meek and yet somehow accusing, stands over her bed each night, until Missy is quite convinced of her own sincere insanity. Only someone truly beyond reason would allow their conscience this kind of foothold over their own dreams. Dreams? Nightmares – for the ghostly presence is nightmarish enough.

Lucy Saxon.

Missy isn’t proud of the things she did, but she can’t bring herself to loathe this manifestation of her guilt. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers to the apparition of her former wife, as the latter stands stoic and silent above her with a broken face and palpable tremor. “I was wrong to hurt you. I’m sorry.” 

Missy had been the archetype of her race, not caring who was left behind in her wake. She had been foolish and short-sighted and considered herself a god. 

Until she had met another – one of her own. 

One who had treated her with the type of contempt she had only ever shown others.

And she had understood, then, what it meant to be on the receiving end of a Time Lord’s arrogance.

 

* * *

 

She can feel herself withdrawing from her captor with each passing day. Physically recoiling where once she craved his touch; her words failing her as he attempts jovial levity. She fights to keep her thoughts to herself, and finds herself swept into a fit of mirth that this is the first time she has wished for true madness. Madness would be more decipherable to him than _this_. Madness would be more expected, more in keeping with her persona. No one expects the Mistress to spend her time crying into her pillow and trying to remember a time when this body hadn’t been touched by the hands of others.

Besides. 

The weight of his pity would suffocate her, and the strength of his empathy would consume him. 

She, who had once chosen death just to spite him, is now fighting to save herself. 

To save herself, to save him.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t a conscious choice, the first time the mask slips. It isn’t a decision she makes in advance – no, it’s organic and spontaneous and uncomfortable. 

“Come on,” the Doctor says one evening, shuffling together four packs of playing cards that he’s picked up in some bar on the outer reaches – she hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t provided the specifics. Too concerned with her feelings, she supposes. “Just one game.” 

“No,” she mumbles, not wanting to engage with anyone or anything at that precise moment. “I don’t feel like it.” 

He’s trying to be sweet. He’s trying to do something for her; trying to set up a game they haven’t played since they were children. 

“Come on,” he says again, dividing the bumper-deck in two and holding half out to her. “One game. You always enjoyed beating me. I seem to recall rather a lot of gloating, in fact.” 

“No,” she repeats, folding her arms and sticking her treacherous hands into her armpits to disguise their shaking. “I don’t want to.” 

“Come on. For me?” he asks, and that’s all it takes for her to snap.

She’s on her feet before she can stop herself, slapping the pack out of his hands, and the cards spill across the floor in a slew of black and red. Fire and blood. 

“No,” she snarls, whole body tensing, thrumming with energy and adrenaline and rage. Fire and blood. “I said no.” 

“Alright,” he murmurs softly, refusing to rise to the bait, and that quiet resignation is all it takes for the fight to go out of her. Her opponent’s willing submission, once a challenge, is now a foil. “Alright, it’s OK. Are you…”

She won’t let him finish the sentence. Can’t. Doesn’t trust herself. 

“No never means no,” she manages, drawing away from him as she stumbles over the words. “ _My_ no never means no.”

Before he can ask what she means, she sits back down at the piano, her foot finding the sustain pedal and staying there. 

The crashing notes prevent any further discussion, and he hangs back on the edge of her field of vision for a beat longer than she finds comfortable. 

When he finally leaves, she rests her head in her hands and inhales deeply. 

 _Composure_ , she reminds herself. _Composure, composure, composure. Don’t hurt him._

_Don’t hurt him the same way I have been hurt._

 

* * *

 

There’s a brief respite after that. Amicable conversation, takeaway food, subtle kindnesses. She thinks – hopes – he may have forgotten her little outburst.

Until the question comes, one evening. 

The question she’s been dreading and longing for in equal measure. 

“What did you mean?” he asks, looking down at his kebab with studious interest and poking through the leftover remains with a fork. “The other day, when you said ‘no never means no’?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she shoves a chip in her mouth, and chews without enthusiasm. “Stupid stuff. Silly girly stuff.” 

“Missy…”

“Never mind. You were talking about Bill – something about a hopeless date she’d been on. Carry on, it was funny.” 

“Missy, tell me.” 

“Doctor…” her chest grows tight, both hearts hammering against her ribs at both his words and his refusal to listen to her wishes. She knows he’s only trying to show concern, but the failure to recognise her discomfort jars with the comfortable, easy atmosphere they had both been carefully cultivating. 

“Please,” he adds in a soft voice, looking up at her for the first time, and she sees the worry in his gaze. She’s always been able to read him like a book, and his emotions are so close to the surface now that she would be able to see them in her mind’s eye if only she had enough energy to maintain her self-defence and probe his consciousness at the same time. “Missy, if you _can_ , if you want to... if it’s not too much. Please, explain.” 

“I…” she begins. Stops. Takes a deep breath. Carries on. “She…” 

The sob escapes her chest before she can stop it, and just like that, everything comes crashing down at once: her composure, her strength, her mental shields. A flood of emotion explodes from her mind like a mushroom cloud, and she can tell by the Doctor’s intake of breath that he’s seeing it all. The lies. The coercion. The… the things which hurt too much to be labelled with a concrete noun. 

She slips from her chair in one fluid motion, curling up on the floor at its foot and placing her hands over her head. It’s too much at once, and she rocks herself backwards and forwards, squeezing her eyes shut so she can’t see the Doctor’s inevitable decline. 

“Missy?” 

He’s beside her. Of course he is. 

Her oldest friend. 

Her biggest enemy. 

He’s beside her, and he’s crying. She’s not sure if he knows he is, but she can sense it – even with her eyes closed, she’s acutely aware of every aspect of him. 

“Missy, can I touch you?” 

That isn’t the question she was expecting, and for a moment, she freezes, acutely uncertain of how to respond. No one has asked her that before. No one has shown that consideration, and it takes her a second to ascertain whether she does, in fact, want to be touched. 

She weighs it up: pros and cons and risks and - 

She nods. 

His hand comes down on her shoulder, palm smoothing over her blouse soothingly. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, as she finds the strength to open her eyes and look up at him. “Missy, I’m sorry. I should have… I should have known.” 

“You can’t save everyone.” 

“No, but I should have saved you.”

“I saved myself,” she says fiercely, realising only then that the Doctor isn’t the only one crying and scrubbing her sleeve over her eyes. “Thank you very much.” 

“Your execution…” 

“A retribution.” 

He lets out a little _oh_ of comprehension, then edges a little closer, putting his arm around her shoulders. Most surprisingly, she finding herself letting him, safe in the knowledge that he’ll let go if she needs him to. For now, though, she moves nearer; rests her head on his chest and finds his heartbeat. This is new. New, but not unwelcome. 

She knows what he’s going to say. Half-hates, half-loves him for it, even before he’s formed the words aloud. 

“I never thought she was capable of that.” 

“Please,” she barks out a bitter laugh, unsure whether she is angrier at herself or at him, before realising she’s not angry at him. Disappointed, perhaps, but not angry. “She was the wonder scientist of Gallifrey. What was I going to be, other than a test subject? That’s how she always saw it, I can tell you that now: the researcher playing at being God, and her miserable excuse for a pet lab rat.” 

“I’m sure…”

“I was an experiment,” she says bitterly, and something in her tone silences his potential protestations. “An experiment to be used and abused and…” 

“And you’re safe,” he finishes, before she can say anything else. She wants to be bitter about that, but can’t. “You’re safe, now.” 

“I… she…” 

“Missy, what she did was wrong. And I promise. You are safe, now.” 

She crumples into his embrace, no longer able to hold back the tears. 

“Safe,” he repeats, and she allows herself to fall into the warm, familiar gravity of his presence. “You are, now and always, safe.”


End file.
